


Peril and Pomade

by MargaretSmoke



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Gobblepot Week 2017, M/M, Romance, Valentine's Day, gobblepot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 12:01:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9725069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MargaretSmoke/pseuds/MargaretSmoke
Summary: For Mayor Oswald Cobblepot, accepting Valentine's Day cards from schoolchildren is an irritating, but necessary task.  More terrifying is having to bear that burden alone.  With his Chief of Staff missing, Oswald turns to an old friend for comfort.





	

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** This fanwork is based upon _Gotham_ (TV). It is created for non-commercial use. It is the product of an educational writing exercise conducted by the author.
> 
> Written for Gobblepot Gazette’s Gobblepot Week 2017, Day 2 Prompt: Valentine’s Day.
> 
> **Spoilers/Timeline:** S3, diverges just before mid-season break.

Peril and Pomade

by Margaret Smoke

* * *

 The large, antique dining room is covered from head to toe in flowers sent by Oswald Cobblepot’s staunch supporters. Jim moves through the temporary botanical gardens, catching the upbeat words of citizens undeterred by Oswald’s somewhat recent, and very public faux-pas. De-thorned roses and soft, pink carnations don’t cover up the scent of the home, which is old and despite all efforts to remove dust and grime by those under Oswald’s employ, will always smell old. Tobacco lingers from a generation gone, but the overwhelming scent is of aged wood varnish. The home’s wooden trim and ornamentation has gone stale, a far cry from the fresh-cut wood it once was.

Jim accepts the chair beside Oswald, who sits behind a plate of hardly touched chicken. The chicken’s caramelized, herbed skin would be tantalizing were it not for home’s cloying age. It’s when Oswald pushes aside the plate with disinterest that the home fades and Oswald’s tea tree oil pomade takes over. It’s not entirely unpleasant, nor overwhelming, and Jim welcomes the nearness of Oswald despite having reservations about being at his beck and call.

“Starting a garden?” Jim remarks.

Oswald purses his lips in one of his many signature sneers before gracing Jim with a wicked smile. “No, old friend. In fact, I’d prefer to set them all on fire, but then this place would smell like potpourri for a year.”

Jim considers telling him the place could use it. When Oswald shifts in his seat to face Jim, the movement carries another wave of pomade and Jim swallows the remark. “What do you want, Oswald?”

Oswald’s eyes squinch, but he doesn’t reprimand Jim for the lack of honorific. “Tuesday is Valentine’s Day.”

Jim sneers and feels a twinge of anxiety in his chest. What criminal plan could Oswald have that involves a manufactured holiday? He hopes Oswald doesn’t idolize Al Capone. “You put stock into all that?”

“Yes, my old friend, I do. Or I must. Now that I’m the mayor, the people demand it. But what good is a mayor alone on Valentine’s Day?”

This bears no further investigation. Jim stands from the dining chair and prepares to navigate the colorful petal maze out of here. “Oswald, you’re wasting my time.”

“Oh come now, Jim, I know there are no supervillains running around, trashing the city. The GCPD’s had a great start to the New Year.”

“It doesn’t change the fact that I should be working.”

Oswald levels his gaze at Jim. He’d seem more menacing if Jim didn’t know him. Or if he weren’t flanked by tiny blue-green flowers that matched his eyes. “You _are_ working, Jim. Don’t forget whom your boss is.”

Jim grunts and sits back down, while Oswald settles back in his seat. It’s enough distance to revive the stale wood. “Talk already,” Jim urges.

Oswald leans forward, puppy-eyed, though his pale peach complexion lacks the rush of blood that often comes with genuine expressions. Jim has seen the look before. He waits with eroding patience, hoping Oswald breaks before he does.

“The thing is, Jim, I need your help. Who knows how long ago _Ed_ scheduled this dreadful meeting with _children_ on Valentine’s Day. I am expected to show up and receive the valentines of children from Gotham Elementary’s entire first grade class. Given Ed’s untimely disappearance, I’ll be forced to do this alone.”

Jim grimaces. He doesn’t want to know the feeling of a day spent amongst innocent children celebrating love and friendship that is interrupted by a call to the scene of a homicide. A guy like him shouldn’t be in that situation. He doesn’t deserve it. Where could he even muster a smile for something like that? “You don’t have anyone else on your staff?”

“No!” Oswald breaks first. His face pinks. “No one that I trust to guide me through this insufferable ordeal.”

“A bunch of kids are handing you valentines. You might get some free candy out of the deal. Not sure how that’s my problem.”

Oswald folds his hands in a move both polite and smug, and his blush fades. “Oh Jim, I’ve devised a very clever scheme. See, the GCPD might be doing well with its workload lately, but its image is _terrible_. If the mayor were to show up to an elementary school not just to _receive_ valentines, but to give them out on behalf of the police, alongside a famous Gotham detective…we could _engender_ a spirit a communication between the police and civilians. The press will _eat_ it up, and I can have someone I trust to keep me from another… _incident_.”

“From saying something stupid, like you don’t care about kids. Got it. Still not my problem.”

Heat and color return to Oswald’s cheeks. “Jim, it would be good for you—”

“Enough, Oswald.” Jim stands, steeling himself against another onslaught from Oswald. “I know what you’re doing. You’ll keep changing tactics until you get me to do something for you. I’m not doing this. I’m not being your _date_ to a school and I won’t help you manipulate citizens through their children.”

Oswald’s expression relaxes, save one curious brow. “My…date?”

Jim regards him with incredulity. His heart pounds a message and his feet tell him to flee. “You think I don’t know what this has been about from day one?”

Oswald squishes his face and shakes his head. An innocent bird nestled in a field of flowers. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Jim grits his teeth. Perhaps he broke first, not Oswald. He wonders if Oswald ever manipulated him at all, or if they’re just stubborn when it comes to each other. Stubborn, but comfortable being at odds. It’s the only way they know how to interact. “Forget it. Have fun, Oswald.”

* * *

Jim’s sparse apartment now houses two full containers of takeout. He gobbles down the fortune cookies, tossing out their much-beloved messages without reading them, and gathers himself a plate and a fork that he sets on his scratched table with a _clink_. He pries open the grease-marked flaps of the vegetable lo mein first, and his partner’s jibe from earlier this week echoes in his mind. Harvey is probably right: Jim is going to turn into a noodle if he keeps eating this way, and if there were a city where turning into a noodle were a real possibility, it was Gotham. Jim opens a container of spicy General Tso’s chicken and figures a noodle transformation wouldn’t be as bad as some of the other problems he’s faced before. He’s grateful for the late hours of the restaurant around the corner, and that’s all that matters to him right now.

He pours the rest of the delivery bag out onto the table, pleased to find more packets of soy sauce for his kitchen drawer, a couple of complimentary mints, and an ample supply of disposable cutlery and chopsticks.

A knock interrupts him mid-sit, and he cautiously heads for the door, expecting no one at this late hour. He’s aware he does not have his gun. It is not Harvey on the other side of the fish-eye peephole.

“Well, that was a disaster,” a well-dressed Oswald says, his face set in anger and his body flanked by his goons.

Jim remembers that it is not only February 14th, but Valentine’s Day. He gives the goons a once-over and declares them here on bodyguard duty, and nothing else. They give him the once over too.

“Are you waiting for me to ask what happened?” Jim asks, keeping his apartment shielded from their view with his body. Unlike Oswald, Jim always ditches his coat, tie, and dress shirt the instant he can, and now wears a sleeveless undershirt. He probably smells a lot worse than Oswald too, given the pleasing fragrance of Oswald’s pervasive pomade.

Oswald gives Jim his prissy sneer, but it cloaks no emotion. The Oswald before him is rouged, but honest. “Those kids overwhelmed me. Everything was _pink_ and _red_ and _white_. They asked me foolish questions, like if _they_ could be mayor one day, just like me. What do you say to that, hmm, Jim? Tell them to work hard and hope everyone _likes_ you? That you should hope you fit whatever flavor of the month is _trendy_? How _abominable_.” Oswald shakes his hands and gestures like he’s an angry customer asking for the manager. He dips his angered hand into his coat and pulls out a crumpled piece of construction paper. “And then, to receive _this_!”

Jim grabs the unloved valentine, but it takes Oswald a beat to relinquish it. Jim unfolds the soft paper heart and sees the angular crayon-work of a child wishing Oswald a Happy Valentine’s Day. In purple crayon, underlined green, lies a misspelled “From” and a lovingly written “Edward.” Jim can smell each waxy line and decides it best to close the card and turn it over to a goon.

“Come on in,” he says to Oswald, and Oswald alone. The goons look to their boss for confirmation that this is safe, and Oswald gives a slight, doleful nod and follows Jim inside.

“Was that the worst of it?” says Jim.

Oswald’s lips curl upon themselves. “I spent lunch with the faculty hearing their complaints. One had the _nerve_ to criticize my campaign! As if I had intended on giving kids more ammunition to bully each other.” He harumphs through his nose. “ _Ed_ would’ve known how to respond. Instead, I ended up spilling part of my actual life story, which they all found charming, or so they told me once they realized their _laughter_ had an embarrassing effect.”

Jim’s stomach threatens to grumble aloud if he doesn’t wrap this up, but an angelic, calmer voice in his mind tells him that Oswald needs this. That any moment to build rapport with a criminal as connected as Oswald that has nothing to do with bloodshed or illegal activities is probably a good moment to have. “It couldn’t have been that bad. Gives you some redeeming qualities.”

Oswald’s fist clenches, and his cane presses further into Jim’s floor. “I don’t deserve redemption, Jim Gordon!”

The outburst hangs like icicles in the cold apartment. Oswald’s chest rises and falls, the heat of his rage melting the silence, and he composes himself under Jim’s vexed stare.

“Anyway, the sandwich order was incorrect, and feeling mayoral, I gave up my lunch to a librarian. That says nothing about the god-awful hours an elementary school keeps, and how rich and full my schedule had become thanks to Ed’s scheduling wizardry. I left home this morning without so much as a _bite_.” As if suddenly self-aware, he pulls on his lapels and sniffs the air. “What is that?”

Jim ponders the upside of buying the same brand of pomade as Oswald. “What is what?”

“That smell.” Oswald’s eyes enlarge as he adjusts to the space, finally acknowledging exactly where he is and what is happening. He inhales deep, studying the air, and his eyes land on the table long after his feet take him there. “What are you eating?” His tone is relaxed, more human than Jim has ever heard him. All machinations in Oswald’s mind, it seems, have sputtered to a halt.

“Vegetable lo mein and some General Tso’s.”

Oswald swallows, and his cane taps the floor in a hurried staccato as he heads for the door.

“Leaving?” says Jim.

Oswald stops before the door, his hand on the handle. He looks over his shoulder, but doesn’t meet Jim’s eyes. “That restaurant. Where is it? I must have that.”

Jim eyes his meal. Gotham often gets in the way of leftovers. He looks back at Oswald, who stands at his door, ready to leave without uttering a single criminal threat or scheme. He sees a man trying to do his best and doing it in the worst way possible. A man unable to step into another person’s shoes because most shoes belong to those who run away from him.

Inwardly, Jim scolds himself for pitying Oswald, the man who may as well live in a castle and is mayor of Gotham. Who has killed and had Jim kill for him.

But as Jim’s eyes scan Oswald over and over again, from the slender fingers gripping the cane to the spiked hair atop his head, there’s a twinge of electricity that Jim erroneously declares is a mix of guilt and compassion. He’s been ignoring another voice to an unhealthy degree for too long.

He can let Oswald stay for dinner.

“I’ll get another plate.”

Oswald turns with a face unseen by many, perhaps even by Oswald’s own mirrors. Vulnerable and irreproachable, his eyes remind Jim of those flowers. “You…want me to stay?”

Jim gives a half shrug. “I want you to stop ranting in hunger.”

“But…you want me to stay.”

Jim opts for skipping the reply, and heads for the kitchen, only to discover his only other plate is in the sink, and that an empty wrapper sits where a stack of paper plates once occupied. He compromises. “How about a bowl?”

Oswald beams. It is a smile Jim has seen before, but again, not one he has seen often. His smile glimmers brighter the longer Jim stares, awaiting an answer, so finally Jim shrugs his brows and shows Oswald the proffered dish. “That’ll be fine,” Oswald says with a bow of his head. “Thank you, Jim.”

“Don’t mention it.” Jim means that.

Oswald goes between ravenous and picky. He folds every napkin he uses and chews quietly. Jim simply eats. They don’t speak, but they converse in glances that contemplate their current circumstance. Soon the take-out containers house as many morsels as their respective dishes.

Oswald, hunger satisfied, softens as he folds his last napkin. “No fortune cookies?”

“I ate those first.”

Oswald shrugs and reaches for a mint amongst the sea of soy sauce packets and Jim’s new utensil stash.

The salt of the meal lingers, as does some of the spice, and Jim figures he ought to hydrate somehow. Tap water seems unpalatable. “Something to drink?”

Oswald looks around politely, and hides a frown. “Wine?”

“I have bourbon and water from the tap.”

Oswald masks his disappointment. “Bourbon is fine. Thank you, Jim.” He remains in his seat while Jim retrieves a cheap bottle of bourbon and pours them three fingers each. They toast silently. Oswald must’ve developed his palate, because he analyzes the nose of the drink despite the fact that it makes him wince. “Oh…that’s…interesting…” He takes a sip, forces it down, and adds, “Bourbon makers sure do love their corn.”

Jim gives him a twisted half-smile and sips. He never pays attention to that stuff, but it looks like Oswald’s getting a headache just thinking about drinking it. Jim’s not insulted. It was probably an insult to even offer it.

Oswald takes a second sip and gives up. “I should go. Gotham can’t run itself. Thanks for the company, old friend.”

Jim sets his glass down. “Don’t mention it.” He stands and motions an offer to see Oswald to the door, which Oswald accepts.

“Jim…” Oswald turns and rests his cane on the doorframe. He extends his hand to Jim, and holds his shoulder with the other hand. Jim reluctantly shakes it, and when the goodbye ritual is over, the hand on his shoulder remains. “I want you to know I hold no ill will toward you for not coming with me today. You were right. That wasn’t your burden.”

Jim calms himself in the scent of Oswald’s pomade. He can nearly smell the mint on his breath, and there’s a whisper of construction paper and glue-stick on his hand too. “I’m sorry about Ed.”

Oswald blinks deliberately, and his nod is languid, apologetic. He raises his other hand to Jim’s cheek. “You and I were friends long before Ed was in the picture.” With a timorous hesitation, he kisses the opposite cheek. “Goodnight, Jim.”

Jim’s skin tingles and a heat not borne of spicy food spreads up his neck and across his face. He doesn’t flinch or pull away from Oswald, but lingers in the mercurial tones and hues of his eyes, and notes how the folds of Oswald’s marbled irises look a lot like petals bursting from a single black stigma. Jim can’t ignore that voice any longer. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Oswald.”

He leans his lips toward Oswald, who melts into the touch. They kiss with uncertainty, a sense that neither of them is being terribly wise but that this is a curiosity that must be shed. There is no fury or fervor, only the acknowledgement of a connection made long ago, a connection unsevered by veteran blades.

When they part, eyes heavy-lidded and darting between each other and _again_ , Jim knows this was not the best move. That anything of this nature with Oswald is unhealthy and built upon certain toxic truths, but given a lot of work, it could be something else if Gotham kept its nose out of it.

For Oswald did know Jim better than anyone else.

Oswald trembles and reaches for his cane. It calms him. If only Jim had something to ground him, too.

“Goodnight, Jim.” Oswald turns the handle on the door, and it opens an inch.

Jim welcomes the chill of the hallway. “See you around.”

Oswald lifts his brows. “Tomorrow?”

Jim thinks it over and slowly nods. “Yeah. Tomorrow.”

[End]


End file.
